Dawn on a Distant Shore
Page 38
"The hospitality o' the auld earl was well kennt," agreed Moncrieff. "Men came from as far as Paris and London to hunt wi' him--and he welcomed them all. Even Pink George came to Carryck, back in forty-four. I remember it weel."
"You must have been a boy yourself," said Nathaniel, truly surprised. "That's fifty years ago."
"I was thirteen," said Moncrieff. "And in training under my faither, who was the earl's factor before me. Pink George was no more than twenty himself. I recall that hunting party weel, for the banquet was my first and my faither's last. He died the following year." Moncrieff cleared his throat again, rubbing a hand over his face. "It was that very banquet where our fine host, George Somerville, Lord Bainbridge, earned the name Pink George."
Robbie's head snapped up. "Ye've been sittin' here wi' us in this stinkin' hole for weeks, Angus, and no' tolt the tale? I've lang wondered aboot that name."
"I was saving it for a rainy day."
"The sun is shining," said Hawkeye. "But tomorrow will be too late if luck is with us."
But Nathaniel could not sit still, not even for a well-told story. He got up to pace the room. The warmth of the spring morning touched his face with a tenderness that would have made him despair, if it weren't for his faith that tomorrow they would be away. He would never turn back, of that much he was certain, should the whole city burn to the ground.
"... more than fifty rode out wi' the hounds that day, Bainbridge among them. He came back empty-handed, lopsided wi' drink, and in an amorous frame o' mind. Kitchen lassie or duchess, he wasna particular. Bainbridge's appetite for women was the talk o' the land."
"Much like yer own," noted Robbie with a wink, but Moncrieff only raised a dignified brow in his direction, and refused to be drawn into a discussion of his own habits.
"The trouble began when he caught sight o' wee Barbara Cameron, a servin' maid. Just fifteen, with eyes o' lavender, and hair like the moonlight itself. A bonnie lass was Barbara, virtuous, but canty. She was serving drink that evening, and had the poor fortune to come across Bainbridge, who thought he would dispense wi' the niceties and get right to lifting her skirts. But whisky made him slow, and she was quick. She left him wi' nothing but her scent in his nose and a ribbon he snatched from her hair as she slipped awa'."
Moncrieff paused to take another deep swallow. The telling of a story seemed to give him a thirst.
"Now, he was no' so bad to look at himself as a young man, was our Bainbridge. There were other bonnie faces in the hall that night who might've made him forget wee Barbara, if it werena for the fact that she had shunned him in front o' all the other men at his table. "Oho," says one o' the stupider Drummonds--just a month later his horse did us all the favor o' throwing him on his heid--"have ye lost your touch, Bainbridge, or is the wild rose of Scotland too thorny for a soft English hand?"'"
There was a guffaw from Robbie, who was bent over in a bow, his hands folded between his knees and head cocked.
"From the little ye've seen o' the man, you know verra well that Pink George is the kind that canna thole laughter at his own expense. And so he made a wager wi' softheided Geordie Drummond. He would have Barbara Cameron in his bed before the dawn, plow the field, and leave a bit more of England putting down roots in Scottish soil when he gaed awa' hame."
Moncrieff shrugged as if to disavow responsibility for what had happened so long ago.
"That was his mistake. Ye see, he drew the auld earl's attention on himself, chasing after a serving maid all evening, for he decided in his drunken state that once she kennt him weel, she couldna withstan' his charms. In the end, his lairdship sent my faither off to get to the bottom o' the matter. And when he came back wi' the whole tale, the earl got a particular light in his eye.
"He was a wily one, the auld earl, sharp as they come and wi' a wicked sense o' humor. Young Bainbridge was an opportunity he couldna let pass. So he goes after the lad--no' to tell him to leave the lass alone, for what game is there in that? No, he asks if there's anything the viscount desires to make his stay more comfortable!"
Pépin had inched a bit closer and was listening hard, although Nathaniel thought he was probably not getting more than half of the story. Denier had gone back to sleep.
"Bainbridge is too deep in his cups to see the strangeness of it, that the Earl o' Carryck should be asking after his wishes personally, and him no' but a lad. But his blood is up now --watching Barbara move through the room, her skirts swinging and her cheeks aa bright wi' color--and he doesna see what is plain to every other man. And the ladies, too, Scotch and English alike, laughing behind their hands.
"Aye, the lass is on his mind and he's blind to all o' it, is George. He winks and nods, and winks again, and presses wee Barbara's hair ribbon into the earl's broad palm. "What a lovely pink it is," says he, winking in Barbara's direction. "I am quite taken with it.""
In the shadows of the gaol cell they all smiled broadly, for Moncrieff was a mean mimic and had got Pink George down exactly.
"Now, the earl can barely keep a sober expression, but he nods. "Aye" says he. And "Certainly." As if it were a weighty matter between men o' the world. He sends Bainbridge off to his room. "Guid things come tae him wha' waits," says the earl."
"You must have been a boy yourself," said Nathaniel, truly surprised. "That's fifty years ago."
"I was thirteen," said Moncrieff. "And in training under my faither, who was the earl's factor before me. Pink George was no more than twenty himself. I recall that hunting party weel, for the banquet was my first and my faither's last. He died the following year." Moncrieff cleared his throat again, rubbing a hand over his face. "It was that very banquet where our fine host, George Somerville, Lord Bainbridge, earned the name Pink George."
Robbie's head snapped up. "Ye've been sittin' here wi' us in this stinkin' hole for weeks, Angus, and no' tolt the tale? I've lang wondered aboot that name."
"I was saving it for a rainy day."
"The sun is shining," said Hawkeye. "But tomorrow will be too late if luck is with us."
But Nathaniel could not sit still, not even for a well-told story. He got up to pace the room. The warmth of the spring morning touched his face with a tenderness that would have made him despair, if it weren't for his faith that tomorrow they would be away. He would never turn back, of that much he was certain, should the whole city burn to the ground.
"... more than fifty rode out wi' the hounds that day, Bainbridge among them. He came back empty-handed, lopsided wi' drink, and in an amorous frame o' mind. Kitchen lassie or duchess, he wasna particular. Bainbridge's appetite for women was the talk o' the land."
"Much like yer own," noted Robbie with a wink, but Moncrieff only raised a dignified brow in his direction, and refused to be drawn into a discussion of his own habits.
"The trouble began when he caught sight o' wee Barbara Cameron, a servin' maid. Just fifteen, with eyes o' lavender, and hair like the moonlight itself. A bonnie lass was Barbara, virtuous, but canty. She was serving drink that evening, and had the poor fortune to come across Bainbridge, who thought he would dispense wi' the niceties and get right to lifting her skirts. But whisky made him slow, and she was quick. She left him wi' nothing but her scent in his nose and a ribbon he snatched from her hair as she slipped awa'."
Moncrieff paused to take another deep swallow. The telling of a story seemed to give him a thirst.
"Now, he was no' so bad to look at himself as a young man, was our Bainbridge. There were other bonnie faces in the hall that night who might've made him forget wee Barbara, if it werena for the fact that she had shunned him in front o' all the other men at his table. "Oho," says one o' the stupider Drummonds--just a month later his horse did us all the favor o' throwing him on his heid--"have ye lost your touch, Bainbridge, or is the wild rose of Scotland too thorny for a soft English hand?"'"
There was a guffaw from Robbie, who was bent over in a bow, his hands folded between his knees and head cocked.
"From the little ye've seen o' the man, you know verra well that Pink George is the kind that canna thole laughter at his own expense. And so he made a wager wi' softheided Geordie Drummond. He would have Barbara Cameron in his bed before the dawn, plow the field, and leave a bit more of England putting down roots in Scottish soil when he gaed awa' hame."
Moncrieff shrugged as if to disavow responsibility for what had happened so long ago.
"That was his mistake. Ye see, he drew the auld earl's attention on himself, chasing after a serving maid all evening, for he decided in his drunken state that once she kennt him weel, she couldna withstan' his charms. In the end, his lairdship sent my faither off to get to the bottom o' the matter. And when he came back wi' the whole tale, the earl got a particular light in his eye.
"He was a wily one, the auld earl, sharp as they come and wi' a wicked sense o' humor. Young Bainbridge was an opportunity he couldna let pass. So he goes after the lad--no' to tell him to leave the lass alone, for what game is there in that? No, he asks if there's anything the viscount desires to make his stay more comfortable!"
Pépin had inched a bit closer and was listening hard, although Nathaniel thought he was probably not getting more than half of the story. Denier had gone back to sleep.
"Bainbridge is too deep in his cups to see the strangeness of it, that the Earl o' Carryck should be asking after his wishes personally, and him no' but a lad. But his blood is up now --watching Barbara move through the room, her skirts swinging and her cheeks aa bright wi' color--and he doesna see what is plain to every other man. And the ladies, too, Scotch and English alike, laughing behind their hands.
"Aye, the lass is on his mind and he's blind to all o' it, is George. He winks and nods, and winks again, and presses wee Barbara's hair ribbon into the earl's broad palm. "What a lovely pink it is," says he, winking in Barbara's direction. "I am quite taken with it.""
In the shadows of the gaol cell they all smiled broadly, for Moncrieff was a mean mimic and had got Pink George down exactly.
"Now, the earl can barely keep a sober expression, but he nods. "Aye" says he. And "Certainly." As if it were a weighty matter between men o' the world. He sends Bainbridge off to his room. "Guid things come tae him wha' waits," says the earl."
